Verse 1:
Feel like the summer back in '95
Shooting pool
Get in fights
Fuck that hood
Bullets fly
Do or die
Do a doughnut in the street and smoke a cig
It's like 18 years since and I got friends still doing bids, yeah
And we gon' be old we they get out
And they gon' be mad enough to get active
When they see they lola's house
Or where it used to be
I'm used to seeing businesses pop up
Leaving families who lived there all they lives broke and stuck
Same company offer measly little bucks to buy the house
Then your grandma's outside on the curb
Sleeping on her couch
It's about them getting you to go to prison
Or to prison
Maybe get you to a prisoner
Or either send you to a prison
Do you get it, yet?
The system run by prisms bout the dollar
The crime ain't really a crime
Long as you work a white collar
It's the gold
And the blood
And the diamonds in the rough
Classic West Coast shit
With a militant touch
Hook:
It feel hotter than last year homie
Boom ping ping
(The motherfucking West Coast)
It feel hotter than last year homie
Boom ping ping
(The mother fucking West Coast)
Verse 2:
Air condition broker than a mother fucker
King Taco bound with some girls whose nails is pretty colors
Also a got knack for throwing facts up on the podium
To rally up and stop a war, happens so to both of them
I'm happy Hopper's home
And peace those who went
They got girlfriends calling in the Art Laboe
This song is for the both of them
I got that marijuana chased with Fiji Water from the store
While I ponder where it's better on death row or Skidrow
Shit rolls downhill and in The Flats we catching shit
Like public schools getting sold to the highest private bid
My pop taught me everything I know about a gat
Son of a gun
Tote a toaster in my Joker Brand pants
Gun control mean two hands
I don't trust them laws
When they written by a bunch of mother fuckers with no problems
Locking me away and never considering the condition
That put me in that position
Homie, Flatlands living
Repeat hook
